


Ginger Steak and an Unexpected Visitor

by LeeBlack



Series: Wolves at Your Door [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Conversations, M/M, Sick Character, do not copy to another site, feelings and Vietnamese food and a reference to Scooby Doo, this might be fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26040817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeeBlack/pseuds/LeeBlack
Summary: “Peter, I amdying.”That had Peter immediately on alert, as did the teenager’s hoarse voice, but he did his best not to let that bleed through his voice when he spoke. “What happened?”“I told you, I am dying. Practically dead.” He wheezed out a hacking cough. “The darkness will take me soon. Erase my search history.”“Stiles-”“Actually, just steal my laptop and destroy it. Whole thing. Explode it. Make it flashy.”
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Wolves at Your Door [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720972
Comments: 70
Kudos: 1036





	1. Chapter 1

“Peter, I am _dying_.”

That had Peter immediately on alert, as did the teenager’s hoarse voice, but he did his best not to let that bleed through his voice when he spoke. “What happened?”

“I told you, I am _dying_. Practically dead.” He wheezed out a hacking cough. “The darkness will take me soon. Erase my search history.”

“Stiles-”

“Actually, just steal my laptop and destroy it. Whole thing. Explode it. Make it flashy.”

Peter heaved out a sigh and looked around for his keys. “It’s been more than a month since Jen taught you the fireproofing wards, and unless you’ve been practicing magic without telling anyone, you shouldn’t be having any blowback now.”

Stiles huffed - his exasperation tempered by a violent coughing jag. “Not magic. Stupid human thing,” he said, coughing again. “Bring me food before I die from my stupid human thing.”

“And what would you like for your last meal?” Peter asked. He picked up the newspaper, finding his keys underneath the Sports section, and headed to the back door, grabbing his wallet as he went.

“Spicy hot Pho soup. And spicy hot tea.”

Vietnamese, then. “I’ll pick it up and be at your house in half an hour. Or will you have succumbed to your injuries by then?”

Stiles just groaned loudly. “I can die on the couch if I move slow.”

“Do not fall down the stairs.”

“No promises.” And then the teenager hung up on him.

Peter frowned at his phone and dropped it into his car’s cupholder. There was a decent enough Pho place not too far. If all went well, he should be able to make it to the Stilinski house sooner than predicted.

...

It took much, much longer than Stiles would have wanted, but he made it to the kitchen on wobbly legs. He staggered forward, catching himself on the counter and closing his eyes. He pulled in a shaky breath as a chill ran through his body. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked around the kitchen. His dad was still spending most of his free time at the station - two new deputies had been hired, but the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department was still woefully understaffed.

And his sudden bout of illness hadn’t helped, not really. His dad had taken him to the hospital, but had been called away for some kind of incident outside Jungle, and had been dealing with that for the past few weeks.

There was a note on the fridge. _Call if something comes up._

Brusque and to the point. Not surprising.

He shoved a magnet on top of it, hiding most of his father’s scrawled handwriting under the face of a local real estate agent.

Living room, right.

Slowly, Stiles made his way into the living room, leaning against the wall as he moved. The couch looked more inviting than he could ever recall - and he had every intention of turning himself into a human burrito with the worn quilt draped over the back of it.

He’d only just made it to the couch when someone knocked on his front door.

He groaned. “Really?” He grabbed the quilt off the back of the couch and pulled it over his shoulders.

“If you want Pho before you die, you have to unlock the door.” Peter’s voice came through clearly enough, which meant that either the door was open or the werewolf had raised his voice for Stiles’ benefit. “I will not break into the Sheriff’s house in broad daylight.”

“Leaving your options open for night time break-ins?” Stiles asked, his amusement once again interrupted by a painful round of coughing. “You haven’t made a copy of my key?”

“Stiles, open the door before I scale your house and go in through your open window.”

Amused, Stiles laughed quietly, doing his best not to let it progress into a cough. He pulled the quilt tighter, wearing it like a cape, and shuffled over to the door. “You can’t catch human sicknesses, can you?”

“No,” Peter said when Stiles opened the door. “And I must applaud your fantastic timing with that question. You look stunning, pet,” he drawled.

“Gee, thanks.” Stiles made a point of looking Peter up and down. “Of course I can’t insult your looks, you healthy freak of nature,” he muttered darkly. “Stupid slutty v-neck.”

Peter ushered the teenager into the house, shutting and locking the door behind them. “What are you sick with?” he asked, setting the bag of takeout on the side table and watching as Stiles dropped onto the couch, wrapping the quilt around himself.

“Doctor said mono,” Stiles croaked. “Rest and fluids.”

“Is this why you’ve been avoiding me for the past week?”

Stiles grumbled.

“I will not spoonfeed you your Pho while you’re horizontal, pet,” Peter said. “Sit up.”

He grumbled again, not moving.

Peter leaned down, pressing a palm to the teenager’s forehead. It was hot, clammy. “How high is your temperature, compared to what it should be?” he asked, before taking hold of Stiles’ shoulders and carefully pulling him into a sitting position.

“ One-oh-one point four this morning,’” Stiles groaned, relaxing in Peter’s hold. “High but not hospital-worthy until it hits hundred and three.” He looked up at Peter, pouting at the werewolf. “Can you do the pain drainy?”

“It’ll take the worst of your aches, but I don’t know that it’ll do much as far as the rest of your ailments,” he said. He pressed the palm of his hand flat to Stiles’ forehead and started pulling the pain. There wasn’t much there, but Stiles let out a happy hum and sagged against Peter. “How did you get mono?”

“Kissing disease. Doctor asked if I’d been sexually active recently, and Dad was pissed when he found out about the party,” Stiles said. “Made them draw blood for a bunch of tests to make sure I didn’t catch anything.”

Peter narrowed his eyes slightly.

“I used a condom,” the teenager protested wearily. “Heather’s nice and all but neither of us wants to be a teenage parent.” He closed his eyes, relaxing in Peter’s hold. “You’d smell it if I caught herpes, wouldn’t you?”

Peter snorted. “You haven’t smelled entirely ill, pet. Other than right now, of course.”

“What’s sick smell like?”

“Cloying.”

“More than that, man, come on.”

“Sweat, clammy skin, and vaguely of rotting meat,” Peter said.

Stiles grinned, the fatigue making him look less amused and more like a grotesque impression of a cadaver. “There’s the sweet talk I needed,” he said. “’m cold.”

Peter took his hand off of Stiles’ forehead and pulled the blanket more tightly around Stiles’ shoulders. “I don’t trust you to be able to hold a styrofoam takeout bowl, or a cup without handles, so if you can stay on the couch without hurting yourself, I’ll bring your meal to you.”

“You going to change into a candy striper outfit too?” Stiles asked, even as he squirmed into a more comfortable position on the couch. “Red and white stripes look good on you, I’d bet.”

“Sweet boy, everything looks on me,” Peter said, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ temple. He grabbed the takeout bag and headed into the kitchen. “I picked up some ginger ice cream on the way over, so if you behave yourself, I may be inclined to share it with you.”

Stiles barked out a laugh, doing his best to swallow the cough that threatened to follow it. He had several retorts ready, but since the older man had come over to take care of him without so much as one complaint, he figured he might as well play nice with him. For now, at least. Once he felt less like a walking corpse, he’d be more willing to antagonize the werewolf.

A sudden knock on the front door interrupted his line of thought.

Stiles scowled. Chancing a glance toward the kitchen, he slowly made his way to his feet and shuffled toward the door. He leaned against the door, catching his breath for a few seconds, before looking through the peephole. “Boyd?”

In response, the other teenager lifted a hand in greeting.

Peter came out of the kitchen, carrying two mugs of tea. “Boyd?”

“He knocked,” Stiles said.

Peter frowned slightly. “Go back to the couch. I’ll open the door and take care of our visitor,” he said, setting the mugs down on the side table.

“I can open a door, Peter,” Stiles said with a scowl.

“Yes, I’m very impressed that you can perform basic every day tasks. Back on the couch before I put you there myself.”

“Dictator,” Stiles grumbled, but shuffled back to the couch as told. “I should spit in your tea.”

Peter smirked. “Only if you’re feeling brave, little man,” he said. He waited until Stiles was back on the couch, glaring balefully over the back of it, before opening the door. “Boyd. How unannounced of you,” he said flatly.

Boyd, for his part, shifted uncomfortably and shoved his hands in his pockets, but showed no signs of retreating. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“I hardly believe that, given that you’ve decided to show up without any warning on the doorstep of your human Packmate. And when he’s ill, no less.”

Boyd scowled. “I didn’t wait for him to get sick, man. This is the first time I’ve been able to stop by,” he said. “Can I come in? I get the feeling that this isn’t the kind of conversation to have in public, since you’re already wearing the butane blue eyes.”

“Don’t claw up the front door, either,” Stiles piped in. “Dad’ll notice claw marks for sure.” He shifted his focus over to Boyd. “You can come in, dude, but if you piss off Peter, he’s got executive veto power to yeet you back out.”

“Yeet me?” Boyd asked, arching an eyebrow at Stiles. He waited until Peter stepped back before coming inside.

“I am _sick_. I get to use whatever words I want,” he said. “And it’s not like the meaning didn’t convey.”

Boyd just snorted.

Peter closed the door behind Boyd, flipping the deadbolt, and watched as he made his way fully into the living room. He grabbed a fistful of the back of Stiles’ hoodie when the teenager shifted around on the couch, keeling almost violently forward toward the floor - and the edge of the coffee table. “Do try not to wound yourself further,” he said. “I have no interest in administering any sort of first aid this afternoon.”

“Like you’d pass up the chance to have me at your mercy.”

“Yes, but it’s so much more fun when you can fight back, pet. Docility does not suit you.” He handed Stiles one of the mugs. “Slowly.”

Stiles nodded, watching as Peter stepped back and turned his focus fully onto Boyd.

“You guys are really serious about your thing, huh?” Boyd asked, looking between the two of them.

Peter crossed his arms over his chest, scowling at the teenager. “I have no interest in indulging any sort of curiosity from an uninvited visitor. State your piece so you can leave.” He perched himself against the arm of the sofa next to Stiles, clearly not intending to leave Stiles alone.

Boyd watched him for a moment before turning his attention to Stiles. “Erica and I owe you an apology.”

Stiles choked on the tea. “What?”

“We should have come to check on you. You know, after the basement.”

He frowned. “You were hurt.”

“So were you,” he said. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing around the room for a few seconds before looking back at Stiles. “We definitely shouldn’t have left you alone while the whole thing with Deucalion was going down,” he said.

“I wasn’t alone. I had Peter.”

Peter, for his part, smirked at that but said nothing.

“I get that. But you should have had more than just Peter on your side,” he said.

“Then what kept you away?”

“Other than the fact you’ve got a fucking scary guard dog?” Boyd asked.

“I might refrain from calling me a dog,” Peter said, tone deceptively light. When Boyd frowned at him, he bared fangs. “Turned wolves may be more inclined to let insults like that roll off their backs, but I am not a mindless beast and I will not be referred to as such,” he said.

Boyd inclined his head slightly.

Stiles frowned at him. “So why show up now?”

“My therapist gave me homework.”

“Your therapist?” Stiles asked, narrowing his eyes. He took a sip of the tea and hummed. “This is good.”

“Since when have I supplied you with anything less than good?” Peter asked.

Stiles grinned over at him, a wicked glint in his eyes. “You won’t snark with me like normal-”

“Not until you’re healthy.”

He rolled his eyes. “Boyd was telling us why he had a therapist.”

“I was abducted, tied up in a basement, and tortured by an old man who was suffering paranoid delusions and thought I was a werewolf,” Boyd said. “All that accompanied by some family stuff that happened before I took Derek’s Bite.”

Stiles’ amusement faded. “That’s how they’re passing off Gerard’s bullshit?”

Boyd nodded. “Chris was brought in to bring a statement while me and Erica were giving ours. Said his dad was suffering from paranoid delusions, that he’d been declining mentally, some kind of dementia,” he said, choosing his words carefully. He winced when Stiles flinched at the mention of dementia but continued speaking. “Your dad asked if he could bring Gerard in, and Chris said he’d committed suicide.”

Peter hummed quietly, amused. He’d suspected that was how Chris would have handled it - hunters were entirely unimaginative when it came to internal affairs.

Boyd shot him a suspicious look. “He didn’t really kill himself, did he?”

“His actions brought about his end, so he was ultimately responsible for his own death,” he said.

Boyd didn’t look convinced.

Stiles smirked around another swallow of tea. “Peter’s not going to confess to any sort of capital offenses by accident,” he said. “Why did your therapist send you to me?”

“Because he’s told me that closure helps, and that I won’t be able to get closure until I confront the shit that’s bothering me. Erica’s therapist told her the same thing.”

“So why is it just you here?” Peter asked, cocking his head to the side a bit.

Boyd sighed heavily. “Because one of the last times Erica saw Stiles, she knocked him out with a part of his own Jeep.” He looked over at Peter. “You heard us while we were waiting for Alpha Blackwood’s verdict. She talked with her therapist about it and she suggested that I come first, in case Stiles didn’t want to be confronted by someone who’d assaulted him.”

Stiles shrugged noncommittally. “Then why are you here?”

“To apologize.”

“For what?”

“Not for Erica’s behavior,” Peter warned, narrowing his eyes at Boyd.

He shook his head. “For the basement.”

Stiles frowned. “Why? You weren’t the one who dragged me down there.”

“No, but I didn’t do anything to try and get you out, either.”

Stiles huffed, clearly frustrated, and immediately doubled over, coughing violently.

Peter snatched the tea out of Stiles’ hands before he could spill it on himself. When Stiles sat upright, wheezing a bit, he frowned. “The hot tea isn’t helping, is it?”

“Can you get me a bottle of water from the fridge?” he asked.

Peter hesitated briefly, gaze shifting over to Boyd.

He held his hands up. “I won’t move from where I’m standing,” he said.

The older man watched him for another few seconds before nodding and heading into the kitchen, though he was clearly going to be keeping his focus on the two teenagers even as he was out of sight.

“It sucked, being strung up to a fence and electrocuted while you got beat practically to death in front of me and Erica. Knowing we couldn’t do anything to stop it.”

“Sucked more to be on the receiving end of a cane from someone who knew how to use it,” Stiles said, one arm curling around his chest almost subconsciously. “More scars that I didn’t really want, but I survived,” he said. He watched as Boyd frowned, his gaze drifting down to Stiles’ torso. “But like you said, you were strung up and electrocuted while it happened, so there’s not much you could have done to stop it.”

“That doesn’t change the way I feel.”

Stiles sighed a bit and stood up as Peter emerged from the kitchen, twisting open a water bottle and setting it onto the side table. “I get guilt as much as anyone, Boyd, but what the hell do you want from me here?” he asked. “I don’t blame you for anything in the basement. I never did.”

Boyd relaxed a bit. “But-”

“Boyd. Look. Whatever you’re feeling, it sucks. I get it. Survivor’s guilt or whatever the hell it is you’re dealing with is a bitch, but I don’t really care. We’re fine. We can go back to our former relationship where you and Erica and Isaac swan about town, intimidating everyone who looks at you funny, and I only interact with you when Derek decides he needs my help with something. It’s fine,” he said.

“But I don’t want to go back to that.”

“Well, bully for you, dude.”

Boyd heaved out a heavy sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. “Look, therapist aside, Alpha Blackwood talked to me about what a Pack is supposed to be. What it could be,” he said. “And I want that.”

“So? The hell does that have to do with me?”

“I get that I was a dick to you, and you didn’t deserve being treated the way you were,” he said. “Alpha Blackwood was saying that Pack was about more than just being there for each other in life-threatening situations, and that it was comfort. Safety. It was about being able to trust the people in your Pack with everything, whether it’s serious or not,” Boyd said, looking more and more frustrated as he spoke. “I’ve never had something like that. Maybe before my sister-”

“Boyd,” Stiles said, shuffling closer to the taller teenager. “Shut the fuck up and get to the point.”

He was silent for a moment, visibly gathering his thoughts, before nodding. “Alpha Blackwood said Pack was about trust and safety. I’ve talked about you in therapy, to the point that my therapist told me to come talk to you.”

“Your therapist doesn’t happen to be Marin Morrell, does it?” Peter asked suddenly.

Boyd shook his head. “I’m seeing Doctor Ford, out in Beacon Valley. Erica’s seeing Doctor Ellis. Why?”

He shook his head.

Stiles shot a look over at Peter, scowling when the older man just shook his head minutely. “So, what, you want to start over?” he asked, turning his attention back to Boyd.

“I don’t think that’s possible, not with everything that’s happened,” he said. “But I want to be a part of a Pack.”

“With me?” Stiles asked, pointing at himself.

Boyd nodded.

“Derek’s still your Alpha.”

“I know,” he bit out.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at the tone. He hadn’t been expecting that sort of frustration about it.

“I know he’s my Alpha. I don’t want to leave again, but I want you in the Pack,” he said. “I trust you, and I want you to be able to trust me too.”

“Just like that?”

“No. I’m not expecting anything immediate. I just want you to know that even though Derek’s an asshole, I know you’re valuable and I want you in the Pack,” he said. “I’m on your side, basically. Erica is too, but she didn’t really know if you wanted to see her at your front door, which is why I came here first.”

Stiles watched him for a long moment. “I think that’s more than I’ve ever heard you talk at once.”

Boyd shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“What do you want from me, exactly?”

He shrugged again. “Nothing, really,” he said. “I really am sorry for all the shit I did to you. If you want to accept that apology and, I don’t know, be friends, that’s up to you. If you don’t want to accept the apology and don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore, that’s also up to you,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know that I want to be on your side. If you’ll let me.” He fell silent for another moment before stepping back. “Beyond that, it’s whatever you want to do with that information.”

Stiles frowned slightly, watching as Boyd walked to the door.

The taller teenager hesitated as he opened the door. He turned back to face Stiles again. “I’m sorry for showing up without any warning, too. I hope you feel better soon.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said. He watched as Boyd headed out, closing the door behind him, followed by Peter quickly walking over and sliding the deadbolt locked. “That was interesting.”

“Indeed,” Peter said quietly, looking back over at Stiles.

The teenager was still wobbly and visibly unwell. He was shivering a bit, clutching his blanket with a white-knuckled grip, and breathing less deeply than he had before dealing with Boyd. It appeared that the conversation had taken quite a bit out of him. “Do you want to go back upstairs and lie down?”

Stiles thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. He moved back over to the couch and dropped into his seat, a bit more roughly than he was intending, if the quiet grunt was anything to go by. “I want to eat soup. And watch something stupid on tv.” He looked up at Peter, lips twitching up into a tired smile. “And possibly to fall asleep on you, if you promise to keep the bitching to a minimum.”

“The amount of bitching I provide will depend largely on the stupid shit you decide to watch,” Peter replied. “What time is your father due home?”

He shrugged. “He’s on nights until next Thursday, so probably not until then. He might text, just to make sure I’m doing okay, unless he catches a case or something.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, not pleased with that information. He’d known that the boy’s father worked long hours, but to be out of the house for over a week - and while his son was sick? He was aware that humans tended to be less family-oriented than werewolves, but that was less borderline and more outright neglectful.

A sudden poke to the nose pulled his attention back to Stiles.

“What?”

“Put your engine on mute, dude.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, arching an eyebrow at Stiles.

“You were growling at nothing,” Stiles said. “Go get the soup.”

He just stared flatly at Stiles.

The teenager stared at him, adopting a puppy-eyed expression and pulling the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. “Please?” he asked, his voice cracking a bit. “I’d get it, but I’m _sick_. I’d probably trip and burn myself.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Sit your ass down on the couch and find something moderately tolerable to watch,” he said.

Stiles plopped back down onto the couch, grinning shamelessly up at him. “Thanks, Peter.”

He just huffed, shoving Stiles back a bit further on the couch. “Don’t push your luck,” he said. “If you pick something that has robots fighting with each other, I will permanently revoke your remote privileges.”

“What about Scooby Doo?”

“Really?”

He shrugged.

Peter watched him for a moment. “Keep the dog jokes to an absolute minimum and I’ll consider it allowable,” he said, handing him the remote. “Try not to hurt yourself further while I’m getting the soup.”

Stiles nodded. He stayed on the couch and flipped through the channels before finding the Scooby Doo marathon. Just as he settled in, absently watching the cartoon, Peter returned with a bowl of soup for him and what looked like pad thai for him. “You got pad thai?”

“Your powers of observation are remarkable, pet.” He handed Stiles the bowl of pho and smirked as Stiles took it, though his attention was almost fully focused on Peter’s pad thai.

“Is it with chicken or shrimp?”

“Your pho has ginger steak in it.”

“No, yours - wait, ginger steak?” Stiles asked, looking down at his bowl. “That’s a thing?”

“It is at Neisha’s. I thought it’d be something you’d like,” he said. “And as I understand it, ginger has some health benefits, among them anti-inflammatory and nausea relief.” Peter sat down next to him on the couch. “If you’re able to keep down at least half of the pho. there’s a shrimp pad thai in the kitchen for you later on.”

Stiles grinned, shifting on the couch to press the length of his body against Peter’s - without losing his hold on either his quilt or his pho. “You’re spoiling me, dude.”

Peter wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to Stiles’ temple. “I would hate to see you succumb to your stupid human thing,” he said.

Stiles relaxed in the embrace. “Thanks for coming over,” he said quietly.

Peter just hummed, doing his best not to let his frustration bleed through. “Eat your soup.”

He nodded, tucking into the food. “’S good,” he said around a mouthful of steak. “Thanks.”

Peter just hummed again, taking a bite of his own food.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, Stiles absently watching Scooby Doo and slurping up the soup and Peter eating his pad thai and doing his best not to be too obvious about watching Stiles.

Almost five minutes into their meal, Stiles slowed down, frowning at his soup. He fidgeted a little bit.

Peter just waited - the teenager wouldn’t last long.

Stiles fidgeted again.

Peter turned his head to look at him fully.

“So, Boyd.”

“Apparently.”

Stiles scowled. “Should I believe him? About what he said?”

Peter shrugged slightly. “His heartbeat was steady as he spoke, if elevated.”

“But what about what he said?” he asked. “Should I believe him?”

He shook his head, twirling noodles around his fork. “I can’t tell you that, pet. That part is entirely up to you,” he said. “But either way, you’ve got my support.”

That had Stiles smiling slightly and leaning almost fully against Peter. “Thanks,” he said. “Really. For all of this."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How have you been holding up?”
> 
> He shrugged. “Ran Jackson over with my Jeep, Peter took me to dinner and now he’s in the habit of feeding me, and I’m getting over mono after losing my virginity at a party to a childhood friend who used the experience to confirm that she’s a lesbian,” he said with a wan smile. “So, you know, I think I might win the ‘what I did this summer’ essay contest when school starts back up.”

Stiles scowled down at the cart, debating leaving the cart full of groceries behind or just calling Peter. The man had enhanced strength. And Stiles was still shaky. Mono was a _bitch_. He’d gone so far as reaching into his pocket for his phone, in no small part amused at the prospect of calling Peter at one in the morning and making him drive half an hour out of his way just to load groceries into the back of the Jeep.

Because he’d do it.

Maybe in the threadbare sweatpants he liked to pretend he didn’t wear and one of his ridiculous low v-necks.

Stiles paused at that thought, not entirely sure where it came from. Sure, the man was absolutely _built_ , and Stiles had ogled more than politely appropriate when Peter had showered that morning, but he had the advantage of claiming illness as an excuse. That didn’t have to mean anything, though.

He shook his head slightly, doing his best to refocus. Unfortunately, all the action did was send a shockwave of dizziness that had him leaning against the back of his Jeep until the world stopped spinning.

“Stiles?”

He jumped, startled out of his reverie by the unexpected voice.

Erica frowned, holding up a hand and pulling on an almost apologetic expression. “Sorry, sorry. I thought you saw me coming.”

“At one in the morning in a shady goddamn parking lot?” Stiles asked tetchily. He eyed her warily, clenching his keys in his fist so hard it hurt.

“You parked under a streetlamp,” she said slowly. “And three spots away from the Camaro.” She nodded at the car in question.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at the car. “Is Derek –”

“Not in the car. He tossed me the keys and said he was going on a run,” she said. “Are you okay? You look kind of pale and shaky. Boyd said you were sick a few days ago.”

He nodded slowly. “Still am. Mono.”

“Shit,” she said. “I had that in freshman year. Took almost the full semester to get over it.” She glanced down at the cart in front of Stiles. “Want me to load up your Jeep for you?” She paused. “Won’t make any kind of contact with you, won’t pull any parts out of your car this time.”

Stiles watched her for a moment before nodding. “I’m still shaky picking things up.”

She flashed him a grin and grabbed a handful of bags. “What are you doing buying ricotta and cheese at one in the morning?”

“Peter promised he’d make lasagna if I got at least six hours of sleep today. My sleep schedule’s fucked on a normal day, so I woke up after six and a half hours and came here. That bastard’s been teasing me with his lasagna for the past two days,” he said. “He’s gonna make it for me if I have to tie him up in the kitchen until he fixes it.”

Erica grinned. “You two are really doing a thing together, huh?”

He shrugged. “He pets my hair and calls me pretty.”

That pulled a snort from her. “Right,” she said. “And the fact that he was pretty much seconds away from humping you on the staircase during Alpha Blackwood’s verdict has nothing to do with whatever the two of you have going on.”

Stiles flushed red but shrugged.

“Hey, I’m not judging. He’s a little old, but I get it. It’s got to be nice to be taken care of like that.”

He frowned slightly. “You’ve got that with Derek, though, right? Part of his whole ‘I’m the Alpha now’ gig?”

Erica scowled, shoving the last bag into the back of Stiles’ Jeep. “You’d think, but it’s like the asshole has a split personality.”

Stiles huffed. “He’s barely got one personality, let alone multiples.”

She shrugged one shoulder, peeking into the bag. “Did you clear out their selection of Reese’s, you freak?” she asked, temporarily distracted. When Stiles didn’t immediately answer her, she looked over at him, frowning a bit. “He’s cool one minute, playing the charismatic idiot who convinced me to take the Bite in the morgue, and the next it’s like he hates everyone around him for just basically existing.” She paused “You saw some of the worst of it while Alpha Blackwood was giving the verdict,” she said. “He’s outright cruel sometimes.”

Stiles wasn’t sure quite what to say in response to that. He wasn’t entirely surprised about that – but then, he and Derek had never exactly been on the same page to begin with.

“This looks like a lot for lasagna.”

“Yeah, well, Peter’s a born werewolf, so it’s not like I can expect him to abide by regular human standards where portions are concerned?”

Erica grinned. “Sounds like you’re trying to weasel extra food out of your wolf, Stilinski.”

“If it happens, it happens,” he said. “What are you doing driving Derek’s Camaro to Walmart in the middle of the night?”

“Buying popcorn and M&Ms and beef jerky,” Erica said with a grin, hefting her backpack in emphasis. “Boyd and I are binging stupid shit on Netflix until we fall asleep.”

“I thought werewolves were creatures of the night?”

She laughed, though her amusement faded a bit. “We’re working our way up to it,” she said. “Lately it’s been me and Boyd trying to make it a consistent twenty-four hours without panicking about something. The junk food and Netflix has been helping. Makes us feel like normal teenagers instead of torture survivors.”

Stiles winced. “I didn’t mean to –”

Erica shook her head. “No, it’s cool. I’m getting used to it.” She huffed out a quiet, humorless laugh as she set the last bag down in the back of the Jeep. “Beacon Hills is a small enough town that having two teenagers recovered after being tortured by the eighty-something-year-old temporary principal of the high school is big news. I mean, we’re lucky that the cops have kept his motives under wraps.”

He shot a sharp look at her at that. “What motive?”

“Delusions. He thought we were werewolves and was trying to torture it out of us to prove that he wasn’t crazy,” she said. “All of this supported by Chris Argent.”

“Really,” Stiles mused. He was curious about what Chris could have done – and how Boyd and Erica were able to make it through the hospital with all the requisite tests without their furry little secret making it out.

She nodded. “He gave a statement that claimed his father was suffering some kind of dementia,” she said, tone gentling when Stiles winced at the mention of that. “And that he’d disappeared for a few hours before Chris found his body. Apparent suicide.” Erica paused, glancing over at the Camaro before looking back at Stiles. “He pulled some strings for me and Boyd, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Boyd’s pretty sure he did something to keep our, um, special conditions off the radar. All of our tests came back with completely human results,” she said. “He’s also the one paying for mine and Boyd’s therapists. They’re both private practice, and really good so far.”

Stiles watched her for a moment. “So you’re doing better?”

Erica nodded. “Me and Boyd are practically living together at his aunt’s house.”

“I didn’t know he had an aunt.”

“Moira’s pretty cool,” she said. “She has an art gallery over in Beacon Valley, and she’s not home all that often, but she’s got a really chill vibe about her.” She hopped up to perch in the back of the Jeep next to Stiles’ grocery bags. “It’s nice not having to skirt around my parents when they’re always mad all the time anyway.” She paused for a brief moment. “How have you been holding up?”

He shrugged. “Ran Jackson over with my Jeep, Peter took me to dinner and now he’s in the habit of feeding me, and I’m getting over mono after losing my virginity at a party to a childhood friend who used the experience to confirm that she’s a lesbian,” he said with a wan smile. “So, you know, I think I might win the ‘what I did this summer’ essay contest when school starts back up.”

Erica snorted before falling silent. She stared at the ground, her legs swinging a bit.

Stiles watched her for a minute.

“You’re recovered, though, right?” she asked, so quietly that Stiles almost missed it. “From the basement.”

He nodded. “My ribs still feel tight sometimes, but ribs always take the longest to heal.”

She hummed. “And your back?”

“My back?”

“Stiles, I keep having nightmares about what happened in the basement, and I can’t forget the sound of Gerard’s cane hitting you in the back,” she said. “I should have come sooner, to make sure you weren’t permanently hurt, but I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

“About what?” he asked. “Not like you could have done anything to stop him, you and Boyd were tied to a fence and being electrocuted.”

“Yeah, but –”

“Erica,” Stiles said, cutting her off. “No offense. I don’t want to like set back your progress in therapy or whatever, but you don’t owe me an apology for the basement. There’s nothing you could have done to stop Gerard from being a bug-fuck crazy, homicidal asshole. Please, don’t apologize.”

She watched him for a moment before nodding. “I _am_ sorry for knocking you out with a piece of your Jeep, though. That was a dick move.”

“Of the highest order,” he said. “But it’s behind us. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones as long as you never so much as think a bad thought about my Jeep again, cause you give her so much as a scratch, then you and me are gonna be mortal enemies forever.”

Erica huffed but didn’t say anything for a long moment. “You really ran Jackson over?”

Stiles laughed at the sudden change in subject. “Drove this baby through a brick wall and had some full body impact on the lizard himself.”

“Is he dead?”

He shook his head. “He’s recovered. Got shipped off to a boarding school in England,” he said. “Don’t know if he’s coming back, but if he does, he’s still got a restraining order on me, so it’s not like we’re going to be getting all cozy with each other,” he said. “Lydia might have gone over to London too.”

Erica shook her head. “I’ve seen her in Beacon Valley a few times when I went to check out Moira’s gallery. We didn’t talk, but Lydia’s kind of unmistakable, you know?”

Stiles nodded, agreeing before catching himself. “Wait a minute, I know that because I was hung up on Lydia for years. How do you know?”

“You’re not the only one who had a crush on the hot redhead,” she said. “I just kept my crushes a secret instead of panting after her even when she had a boyfriend.”

Stiles winced at that. “Ouch, Catwoman.”

She smiled at that. “I didn’t think you’d call me that again after everything,” she said, tucking a locke of hair behind her ear. “I like you. When you’re not hung up on someone to the exclusion of the rest of the world.”

“I appreciate that, but I think I’m kind of taken. Peter doesn’t exactly strike me as the sharing type.”

Erica laughed at that. “And I’m over my crush on you. Fully hung up on Boyd,” she said. “I meant as a friend. If you want me.” She went bright red. “Want me as a friend, I mean.”

He watched her for a long moment.

“You don’t have to –”

“I know.” He paused, leaning against the door of his Jeep. “Boyd came by yesterday and said something similar.”

Erica watched him for a moment.

“Peter’s been good to me. Real good,” he said quietly. “I feel safe when I’m with him, but I don’t know if I’d call him a friend, exactly.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t really come across as the _friend_ type, if I’m honest,” she said. “Especially not with the way he was acting with you when Alpha Blackwood was at the loft. Have you two gone all the way yet, or were you waiting until you’re not jailbait?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m not jailbait,” he said. “I’m eighteen. Why does nobody know that?”

Erica snorted. “What, cause you’re such an open book? What’s your first name again?”

Stiles opened his mouth, an argument already halfway to falling out of his mouth before he caught himself. “Alright, fair.”

She laughed quietly. “You’re really eighteen?”

He nodded. “’S part of the reason Dad was so pissed about the restraining order shit with Jackson,” he said. “And then again when Chris threatened another one.”

“Chris threatened a restraining order on you?”

He nodded again, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing away. This was something he had no interest in talking about.

“So if you’re not friends with Uncle Peter, what are you?”

He shrugged, not entirely sure. “It’s fucking creepy you call him Uncle Peter, you know?”

Erica cackled and hopped down onto her feet. “You should have seen it when I called Derek daddy,” she said. “He was in one of his good moods. Went bright fucking red.” She grinned. “Boyd about choked on his soda, too, so I count that as a double win. And you’re going to go back to your place, find your wolf, and if you call him Uncle Peter –”

“I will successfully talk myself out of homemade lasagna and who knows what else I can wheedle out of the man while I’m sick,” Stiles said. “And I’ve got zero interest in anything that remotely resembles a daddy kink. That appears to be your area.”

“Nah,” she drawled. “I just like seeing pretty boys getting embarrassed. Makes me feel all kinds of powerful.”

Stiles snorted, amused despite himself. “You’re kind of a sick fuck, you know?”

“Course I am. That’s why I like you so much. Like minds and all that.” She stared at him for a long moment. “I know we weren’t exactly on great terms before, but I want to be on them. Great terms. With you. As friends. Probably creepy, fucked up friends. But friends. If you want.”

Stiles stared for a moment – he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Erica so discombobulated, but she was watching him, not quite meeting his gaze and growing a progressively darker shade of red. He’d almost call it cute, if he hadn’t seen the _literal_ fangs and claws Erica hid under the bombshell blonde appearance. “We’re not exactly good,” he said. “There’s probably too much history for good right now, but it’d be nice to have a friend who isn’t so hung up on their love life that they forget I exist.”

She watched him, not saying anything and still not quite meeting his eyes.

“We could try a gray slate.”

Erica frowned slightly. “Isn’t the saying a blank slate?”

He nodded. “Yeah, but there’s too much history for us to have a blank slate,” Stiles said. “Besides, I already know your fuzzy little secret, so blank slate’s kind of impossible, Catwoman,” he said, offering her a small smile and a lazy shrug. “And gray’s not such a bad color.”

“Gray is literally the most boring color on this planet, followed closely by beige,” she said.

“Wrong,” Stiles said. “Ecru is the most boring color on this planet,” he said. “Followed closely by taupe.”

Erica grinned, finally meeting his gaze. “Boring gray slate it is,” she said. “Gimme your phone.”

That caught Stiles off guard. “My phone?”

She nodded, holding out her hand expectantly. “It’s a mobile device, often used to send text messages and make phone calls. C’mon, Stilinski, cough it up before I decide to frisk you for it.”

“Creepy and fucked up,” Stiles said, even as he fished his phone out of the front pocket of his jeans.

She snatched it out of his hand.

He leaned forward, watching as she entered both her number and Boyd’s into his contacts. “Boyd know you’re giving me that?”

“As long as you don’t send him any nude photos, he won’t have a problem with it,” she said. “He’s hot and I’m completely gone on him right now, but he’s not one to share, so I don’t think he’d really appreciate it.” She leered at him. “If you want to send some to _me,_ though, I’d _love_ the chance to see what you’ve been hiding underneath the flannel and stupid t-shirts, studmuffin.”

Stiles snorted, though he felt his ears heat at the reference to the t-shirt he was wearing underneath his jacket. “You’re not going to ask for my number too?”

She shook her head. “Nah. Part of the therapy thing, apart from my counselor telling me that there can be closure in apologizing, is that I have control issues,” she said. “So this is my olive branch for the gray slate.”

“I think you’re mixing your metaphors.”

Erica shrugged, handing Stiles his phone back. “I’m giving you my number. Now the control is in your hands. You want to talk, hang out, text, whatever, you get to be the one to decide when to do it,” she said. “I’m open to whatever sort of friendship you want to offer, but you’re the one who gets to control what sort of friendship that is.”

Stiles stared, a bit gobsmacked at that. “Thanks, Erica.”

She smiled at him. “No, Batman, I owe you thanks. You saved me and Boyd,” she said. “And I’ve got to get back before he decides to watch something just unforgivably stupid.”

He snorted.

Erica grinned, looking much more at ease. “Like I said, control issues,” she said. Without any warning, she leaned forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, no doubt leaving an imprint of her bright red lipstick on his skin. “Have a good night with your wolf, Stiles.”

“Yeah, you too,” he said, a little bit dazed. He watched as she sauntered over to the driver’s side of the Camaro and slid inside.

As she pulled out of the parking lot, Stiles belatedly realized he was still holding his phone in his hand. He glanced down at it, smiling slightly, before tucking it into his pocket and shutting the back of the Jeep.

Time to go home to Peter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one's probably going to be a Peter chapter.  
> Possibly accompanied by the accidental plot, but at this point, who knows? XD


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m tired,” Stiles groaned. “Fucking mono.”
> 
> Peter hummed, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist and pulling the younger man to his feet. “I am perfectly capable of carrying your tired deadweight up to bed,” he said, adjusting his hold to carry him in a makeshift bridal hold and headed upstairs.
> 
> “No molesting me while I’m sick,” Stiles mumbled, even as he nuzzled closer to Peter.
> 
> “How very kind of you to not rule out my molesting you when you’ve recovered.”

When Stiles pulled back into the driveway at home, he was only slightly surprised to see Peter’s Batmobile parked down the street. He would have thought the older man would have pulled into the garage, not wanting to risk something happening to the coupe. He pulled into the driveway and parked the car, relaxing a bit when he saw the kitchen light flip on in response. It was unexpectedly reassuring to come back to a house that wasn’t empty.

A quick check in the rearview mirror showed Erica’s lipstick imprint still perfectly intact. Excellent. He got out of the car and headed inside, not entirely surprised to see Peter in the kitchen, filling the kettle.

“You survived the grocery store?”

“I am a Walmart expert, man,” Stiles said with a grin. He watched as Peter turned to face him, grin growing almost obnoxious when the older man’s gaze immediately locked onto the red lipstick. “Even made a friend.”

“So I see.” Peter stepped a bit closer, eyes narrowing on the mark.

Stiles watched him for just another few seconds before deciding to take mercy on him. “Turns out Erica was at Walmart too,” he said. “We talked. Similar stuff to what Boyd said, but she gave me her number. Told me to call, if I wanted.”

Peter hummed. “You look much more fetching without it.”

“Fetching?” Stiles asked, though he felt his ears get hot with a blush.

He hummed, finally looking away from the lipstick to meet Stiles’ eyes. “Are you at all shaky?”

Stiles shook his head. “I can probably help you bring in the groceries, if you take the heavier stuff,” he said.

“Meaning you bought a new hoard of Reese’s and you want to bring it inside to try and squirrel it away somewhere you think I won’t get to it,” Peter said, reaching up and swiping a thumb over the lipstick. “No matter where you hide them, I will always be able to find your ridiculous hiding spots, pet.”

“I have a minifridge in my room that I keep stocked with water and Reese’s, Peter. It’s not like I’m hiding it from you,” he said, scrubbing the sleeve of his jacket over his cheek to get rid of most of Erica’s lipstick. “Better?”

He cocked his head to the side, giving Stiles a slow once-over. “It will be better once you shower the smell of Walmart off of you,” he said. “But let’s get the food inside.”

“And if I shower, you’ll make lasagna?” Stiles asked, following Peter as he headed out to the driveway.

Peter chuckled quietly. “I could decide to take an extra interest in your health. After all, you could get dizzy in the shower,” he said. “It would be a shame for you to get injured when you’re still unhealthy.”

Stiles went bright red. “I’m capable of showering without assistance, creep.”

“Ah, and there’s the pet name I had so come to miss,” he said. He watched Stiles for a moment before darting in and licking a stripe up the side of his face, laughing at the disgusted look on the teenager’s face and the way he scrubbed harder at the side of his face. He paused for a moment, scowling at the taste. “That makeup is entirely too chemical,” he said, grabbing his glass of water and taking a large swallow.

“Serves you right,” Stiles muttered darkly, though he ducked his face to hide the violent blush spreading across his face. “And just for that, I’m not sharing any of my chocolate with you,” he said, marching back out to his car.

Peter watched him go for a moment, nostrils flaring as he took in the younger man’s scent for a moment. Apart from the not-quite-noxious cacophony of secondary scents that came from shopping anywhere particularly public, he still carried the cloying, almost sour scent of illness. He was a little bit less shaky than when he left – though Peter wasn’t sure if that had something to do with the sleep he’d blackmailed out of the teenager or a general recovery. “You are aware this isn’t an easy dish to prepare,” he said, following Stiles out to the car. “If I decide to make it at all.”

“Hey, I got a whole six and a half hours of sleep. You said six and you’d make it.”

“I said six and I’d _consider_ , pet,” Peter said, smirking at Stiles as he opened the back door of the Jeep. His amusement only grew when he saw the number of grocery bags there. “And just how much lasagna are you expecting me to make?”

Stiles stared up at him, attempting to pull on a pair of puppy eyes.

It wasn’t working quite as well as he thought, but Peter was willing to indulge him. For now. “One dish takes four and a half hours to fix,” he said. “And you’ve bought enough for me to make three.”

“You have a faster metabolism,” he said. “I was trying to be considerate.”

Peter snorted. “You were trying to be conniving,” he said, reaching forward and grabbing a handful of bags. He paused when Stiles snatched the bag that was filled almost to overflowing with Reese’s Pieces and M&Ms and what looked like an enormous KitKat bar. “And your lack of willingness to share is not endearing you.”

Stiles scowled. “I’ll share. I’ve shared my stash with you before,” he said. “But are you considering in a way that means we can have lasagna for lunch?” he asked, grabbing another bag and following Peter inside. “I even got the nutmeg for your fancy festival sauce.”

“Béchamel sauce, pet. It’s not difficult.”

“It is when you pull French words into homemade dishes,” Stiles snarked back. “And it better live up to the expectations I’ve built up in my head.” He looked over at Peter. “I mean it. Best fucking lasagna on the planet.”

Peter laughed. “I suppose I should be flattered at your faith in my abilities as a chef.” He set the bags down on the kitchen table and looked over at Stiles. The action of bringing two bags in didn’t seem to have worn him out too much, though his heartbeat had increased more than was expected for just the short amount of exertion. “Are you feeling alright?”

Stiles frowned slightly, visibly confused.

“Your heartbeat increased.”

“Ah,” Stiles said, glancing down at his chest. “I’m good. Not super dizzy right now, but I’ll probably get a little bit shaky in a few minutes. Are you freaking out because I’m sick?”

He shook his head. “Not exactly,” he said. “I’m just not used to human illnesses lasting so long. Anaise caught the flu once, but she was just miserable for a few days and drank about a gallon of strawberry watermelon Gatorade. I looked up mono while you were sleeping. This can last for months?”

“Only the fatigue, and only if I try to do too much too soon,” Stiles said. “Doctor covered the basics, told me not to get into trouble for a month and I should be fine. The dizziness and the chills can go the fuck away any time soon, though.” He dropped down into a chair at the kitchen table, sprawling halfway on top of it and closing his eyes. “You should stay off WebMD if you’re going to be looking up human diseases,” he said. “It always ends in pregnancy or cancer with them.”

Peter snorted. “I didn’t see cancer listed, but there were several complications that affect the brain. Encephalitis and meningitis,” he said. “None of which seem particularly pleasant.”

“Yeah, that’s only if I didn’t see the doctor when I did, and only if I don’t take my meds.”

“And you’ve been keeping up with that?”

Stiles nodded without lifting his head. “Have an alarm set on my phone,” he said. “It’s why I get really hyper for like an hour and a half after breakfast. Steroid pill hits pretty hard.” He shrugged a bit. “Right now I’m kinda tired, though. Just gonna close my eyes for a few minutes, okay?”

Peter hummed, watching as the teenager quickly dropped off to sleep. He headed back out to the Jeep, grabbing the last handful of bags and shut the car, before heading back inside and making sure to flip the deadbolt. Stiles hadn’t so much as budged, which wasn’t unexpected. He turned most of his focus to putting the groceries away, taking the opportunity to continue poking through the cabinets. He’d tossed the last of the old Chinese food while Stiles was out at the grocery store, but it was still irritating to see how bare the cabinets were. Save for the liquor cabinet in the Sheriff’s home office. Most of the bottles were covered with a layer of dust, untouched for years, but the heady stench of alcohol had seeped into the walls of the room. And he’d be willing to bet that the man’s office down at the station carried a similar scent.

Stiles shifted a bit, heartbeat finally settling into something resembling deeper sleep. Peter wouldn’t leave him to sleep on the table for too long – it wouldn’t be comfortable in the long-term.

He finished putting the food away and took a quick survey of the ingredients. It seriously looked like Stiles had bought enough to make three lasagnas. One would do for now, but if Stiles was sick for too much longer, he’d probably make another to freeze. He’d start fixing the lasagna at about eight in the morning. He could hopefully redirect the teenager’s hyperactivity into something moderately productive while he was fixing the Bolognese and the Béchamel sauces.

A brief moment of curiosity had him reaching into Stiles’ jacket pocket for his phone.

The teenager didn’t so much as budge.

It was quick work to unlock Stiles’ phone – for a smart kid, his phone was easy enough to get into – and find Erica’s phone number. He memorized it and put the phone back in Stiles’ pocket. He nudged the teenager, getting an incoherent grumble in response.

“C’mon, pet,” he said, nudging more intently. “If you fall asleep here, I’ll have to listen to you bitching about how sore you are all day. Up.”

“I’m tired,” Stiles groaned. “Fucking mono.”

Peter hummed, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist and pulling the younger man to his feet. “I am perfectly capable of carrying your tired deadweight up to bed,” he said, adjusting his hold to carry him in a makeshift bridal hold and headed upstairs.

“No molesting me while I’m sick,” Stiles mumbled, even as he nuzzled closer to Peter.

“How very kind of you to not rule out my molesting you when you’ve recovered.”

Stiles grumbled again. “Shuddup. Sleeping here.” With that, he burrowed his nose against Peter’s collarbone, making a happy sound in the back of his throat and appearing to immediately go back to sleep.

Peter let out a happy rumble, unable and somewhat unwilling to suppress the instinct. It’d been far too long since he’d had someone in his Pack take comfort in his presence. He kept a tight hold on Stiles as he headed into the teenager’s bedroom, taking care not to trip on the scattered piles of clothing and the blanket pulled halfway off the bed, no doubt all casualties of Stiles’ ongoing illness.

He closed the door behind himself. Stiles’ father wasn’t expected home for another few days yet, but he had no intention of taking unnecessary chances.

It wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped to put Stiles down in his bed – he was clinging like a limpet to Peter, apparently unwilling to let go of Peter.

He ceded the battle, choosing to settle down in the bed himself, loosening his hold on Stiles so he could sprawl out on the bed, stealing the best of the pillows and propping it up behind his head.

Stiles, for his part, made another happy little grunt and starfished across the bed, planting himself solidly on top of Peter.

The older man rolled his eyes but let it happen – he could use some sleep himself, though he wasn’t particularly tired at the moment. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his cellphone. Set an alarm for eight, both for Stiles’ medication and for him to start on the lasagna. Once that was done, he shot off a quick text message to Erica.

_Kissing someone who’s not in your Pack can be taken as extremely offensive, particularly when you leave a mark. Borderline poaching, depending on the Pack in question._

Fortunately, Erica was quick to respond. _hi there, Creepy Uncle P ;) I definitely recall giving you my number and inviting communication with you. and for the record, I never *didn’t* consider Stiles part of my Pack_

_Then how do you explain assaulting him with car parts?_

That elicited a less immediate response. He waited almost two minutes before his phone buzzed with her response. _closest I can figure was I was drunk on power from the Bite. also consider it a huge mistake_

Peter hummed but didn’t respond to the text. It wasn’t an unexpected reaction – especially if she’d had health issues prior to the Bite.

Several minutes later, Erica texted him again. _You were born this way, right Lady Gaga?_

_Ridiculous pop culture references are not the way to go if you’re going to fail at subtlety when you’re trying to get something out of me._

Followed by three sequential text messages

_its just,_

_shit, hit send too fast_

_I thought you might be able to help. with Derek_.

Peter bit back a frustrated groan. _What egregious bullshit has he committed now?_

_can I call you? it’ll be easier to explain in convo instead of texting_

Peter glanced down at Stiles, who was still fast asleep. He wasn’t going to be able to get out from underneath the teenager-turned-octopus without waking him. He let out a quiet sigh before calling Erica.

“Seriously?” Erica asked by way of greeting, picking up on almost the first grin.

“Speak quietly and make it quick,” Peter said, his voice little more than a whisper. “I don’t have much patience when it comes to dealing with my nephew’s numerous mistakes.”

She snorted. “Fine, but fair warning, you’re on speaker. Boyd’s here too.” She hesitated for a moment. “You’ve been an Alpha, right?”

Peter hummed. “My time as Alpha was fueled largely by a homicidal rage induced by six years spent comatose, and preceded by watching my entire family die in a fire started by overzealous hunters, so I don’t know how much I can offer you on this subject,” he said. “But I’m intrigued enough to listen, so ask your question.”

“Is it normal for a born werewolf turned Alpha to get like split personalities, where one minute they’re decent and the next minute they’re completely intolerable?”

“Becoming an Alpha does not change your personality, so to speak. It amplifies what’s already there. In my case, it amplified my homicidal tendencies.”

“So what’s Derek’s normal personality?”

Peter paused for a minute, thinking about it. “Before the fire, he was always shy. Quiet. Obsessed with baseball. Not particularly violent, especially for a werewolf. When you say he turns completely intolerable, what does that mean?”

“He gets real mean. Says we got what we deserved in the basement for leaving him when he gave us a chance at a better life, and that most other Alphas would have killed deserters, so we should be grateful he let us live at all,” Erica said.

“He’s told me he regretted giving me the Bite a few times,” Boyd chimed in.

Peter growled lowly. That was unacceptable behavior from any wolf holding the role of Alpha. Pack could be turbulent at time, but to deliberately sow discord amongst their Betas served no purpose other than to weaken the Pack at large.

Stiles grumbled, shifting a bit on top of Peter.

He watched the teenager carefully for a long few seconds, but he showed no other signs of waking up, so he turned his focus back to his phone call. “The vitriol is uncalled for. If he’d said any of that shit while Alpha Blackwood was in earshot, I can guarantee he’d have tried to poach you. As would any respectable Alpha,” he said. “It’s not possible to build a strong Pack on a foundation of emotional abuse.” To be entirely honest, that sort of behavior was worthy of bringing to the Council, but given they’d only relatively recently gotten a stay of execution, so to speak, Peter wasn’t particularly inclined to bring their attention back to Beacon Hills – more than absolutely necessary, given their probationary status, at least.

“Oh,” Erica said quietly. She sounded small, almost scared.

Peter waited.

“So what do we do about it, then?” Boyd asked. “Cause I gotta be honest, I have enough to deal with my mom still blaming me for Alicia’s disappearance. I agreed to the Bite because I thought this whole Pack thing was supposed to offer support, not because I had any interest in being treated like shit by someone else important in my life.”

Peter hummed. “True Pack is meant to offer support,” he said. “There are a few options available to you. You could leave again, state your claim to another Alpha. The respectable ones would offer to help you find a better Pack, if not outright adopt you into theirs. You could confront Derek and see if talking about his behavior has any impact, though to be honest, I would suggest otherwise. Even as a child, he wasn’t particularly receptive to being told he needed to improve his behavior,” he said. “We Hales do tend to be stubborn.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the call.

“I’m still in high school. I don’t want to have to leave Beacon Hills,” Erica said, sounding much younger than her seventeen years. For the briefest of seconds, Peter flashed back to Anaise’s panic attack when she’d first learned that the IVF had been successful and Emily was carrying twins.

:::::

“I can’t do this, Peter,” she’d said, curled up in an almost impossibly small ball in one of the theatre chairs. She was pale, shaking, visibly terrified. Her cellphone was sitting on the arm of the chair, where behind the lock screen was the saved voicemail from Dr. Nguyen’s office, confirming the test results. “I can’t change a tire. I don’t know how to change diapers.”

Peter had dropped into the chair next to her, letting out what he hoped was a soothing rumble. He opened his mouth for a moment, reassurance at the ready, when something caught his mind. “You don’t know how to change a tire?”

She shot him a flat look. “I didn’t drive before I moved out to California, Peter, and now I’ve got roadside assistance for a reason,” she said. “Can we focus on the important piece here, like how I’m going to completely fail as a mother?”

That had Peter smirking. “Who says you’re going to fail?”

“I _can’t do this_.”

“How do you know?”

“Peter, Derek wanted to play catch with me the other day and I ended up breaking the kid’s nose. He’s _eight_. How the hell am I supposed to handle an infant? Who’s still got soft spots in their brains?”

He leaned back. “I might suggest waiting until their skulls are fully formed before playing catch,” he said. “And Derek getting distracted by a bird and letting his focus drop enough to miss a baseball to the face does not make it your fault.”

She snorted, and then immediately covered her mouth, looking almost scandalized. “ _Peter!_ ”

:::::

“Peter?” Erica asked, her tone making it clear that it was not the first time she’d asked it. “Are you still there?”

He just offered a noncommittal hum by way of acknowledgement.

“What if we want to stay in Beacon Hills?” she asked.

“When Derek’s not being a raging asshole, he’s actually kind of decent,” Boyd said. “If there’s a way to make the decent part stick around and the asshole go away, I’d be willing to at least give him a second chance. I don’t want to have to leave town before I graduate.”

Erica made a quiet noise that sounded vaguely like agreement. “Is there another option?”

Peter thought on it for a moment. “There are two that I can think of,” he said.

When he paused at that, Boyd growled. “Care to elaborate on those options, then?”

“You could issue a challenge to Derek. If you win, you’ll take the rank of Alpha, and Derek’s going to be your Beta. If he survives the challenge. Of course, that then leaves you as the person who has to deal with the influx of power that comes with that rank,” Peter said. “Or you could figure out a way to temporarily stabilize his behavior.”

“What, like mood stabilizers?”

“Of a sort,” Peter said. “It’d have to be magical, not medicinal in nature. I can do some research to see if there’s anything that would feasibly work, but it’ll be tricky if you’re looking for something leaning more long-term.” He paused, thinking about it. There were only one or two things he could think of that might be successful, but either way, nothing would be a permanent fix.

Erica made an odd noise in the back of her throat.

There was a muffled sort of conversation between Erica and Boyd – not entirely comprehensible from Peter’s side of the conversation. He turned his focus to Stiles, who was still fast asleep. The younger man mumbled something about octopus waffles before practically shoving his face into Peter’s armpit and letting out an impressively loud snore.

Erica cleared her throat. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Would you help us?” he asked.

Peter snorted. “I won’t challenge my nephew for his Alpha rank,” he said. “I’m still recovering from the last time he ripped my throat out, and I’m not particularly keen on reliving that particular experience,” he said.

“So you’re going to do nothing?” Boyd asked sharply.

“I can do some surveillance and some research,” Peter offered. “I will not promise anything, but I might be able to turn up something that may be of use,” he said. “I’ve got my library and a few resources from before the fire who are still willing to do business with me.” He hesitated for a moment. “It won’t be a quick turnaround. This sort of intel gathering takes time.”

“Sounds expensive,” Erica said quietly.

“It can be.”

“And you’d really be willing to do that for us?” she asked. “What would it cost us?”

Peter huffed quietly. “You’re close enough to Pack that I’m willing to give you this one for free,” he said. “Besides, an unstable Alpha puts the entire community at risk. Assault is one thing, but exposure is something that is unacceptable by every member of the supernatural community. Again, I’m not promising anything concrete. Just asking around.”

Erica was silent for a long moment.

“What if it gets worse?” Boyd asked.

Peter frowned down at the phone. “Worse how?”

“I mean, what if he resorts to physical violence?”

“Does it seem likely?”

Erica snorted. “Uncle Peter, we were recently tortured in the basement of our former high school principal,” she said, still in that quiet, uncertain tone. “We weren’t exactly expecting something like that to happen, so it’s not like we can rule anything out at this point.”

His frown darkened. “If you suspect you’re in imminent danger of coming to harm at Derek’s hand, call me and I’ll do what I can,” he said. “If you need somewhere public to come while you wait for me, Mel’s diner is a decent enough halfway point.”

“Does that mean you’re going to help us even if it ends up with you challenging him as Alpha?” Boyd asked, sounding skeptical. “You said you’re still recovering from the last time you got your throat ripped out.”

Peter hesitated. “Boyd, during the fire, I snapped the necks of my older sister, her wife, and her two young children to prevent them the more agonizing death of suffocation by smoke inhalation,” he said, clearing his throat as those memories flashed back, unexpectedly vivid. Stewart’s chubby face, eyes welling up with tears, as he tried to choke out his mother’s name through the thick black smoke, flashed bright in his mind for a too-long second. “My role has always been to carry blood on my hands for the benefit of my Pack. Confronting my nephew for unstable behavior will be just one more act I commit for my Pack.”

“You think of us as Pack?” Erica asked.

“You’re the one who started things out calling me Uncle Peter,” he said.

She laughed, though it sounded a bit watery. “Yeah, but still.”

“At the very least, you’re Pack by proxy,” he said, glancing down at Stiles. “If for no other reason than the two of you are two of very few wolves in Beacon Hills. It makes more sense to be courteous than outright hostile with each other.”

“Thanks,” she said, around a definitely audibly watery laugh. “Thanks, Peter.”

“Yeah, thanks, man.”

Peter hummed. “Thank me by keeping yourselves safe,” he said quietly. “There’s been quite enough death in the Hale Pack over the past few years. I’m not particularly inclined to see that count rise any time soon.” He’d do some looking and put a concerted amount of effort into tapping his resources to try and find some kind of stabilizer. Derek may well suffer from an unfortunate personality, but he was still technically family. And as family, Peter had an obligation to the insufferable idiot.

Boyd made a rough sound. “We’ll try.”

“Good.”

“Can we keep in contact with you?” Erica asked. “Even if it isn’t a life and death sort of situation?”

Peter snorted. “You’ve got my number now, and I doubt I could stop you,” he said. “Though I will warn you that if you try and pull me into inane conversations, I will be more inclined to ignore you. My offer to help is attached to a very shallow reservoir of patience.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, Uncle Peter,” she said. “We’ll do our best not to waste your time.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Does the Uncle shit bother you?” Boyd asked after a moment. “I can’t guarantee I can stop her, but I guess it’d be better to know now if that’s pissing you off.”

He smirked at that, planting a quick kiss on the top of Stiles’ head. “It’s not the worst moniker I’ve had,” he said. “Though I would request you keep it between the two of you. I will not react well to being called Uncle Peter in public.”

Erica laughed.

“And if you attempt Daddy, I will be tempted to shave off both of your eyebrows. And possibly your head.”

That sent Erica into breathless cackles.

Boyd, for his part, snorted. “I’ll do my best to rein her in, Peter, but I can’t promise anything.”

He smiled, amusement turning genuine. “Just try not to scream it out across the street and I’ll do my best to let everything else slide,” he said. “I would appreciate you keeping my involvement with all this to a minimum, especially where Derek is concerned.”

“Peter, you’re offering to help us figure out how to polarize a bipolar Alpha werewolf. I can guarantee Derek’s not going to react well when he finds that out, and I personally am in no hurry to deliberately piss him off,” Boyd said.

Peter chuckled quietly. “Fair enough,” he said. “Erica’s got my number now, so I expect she’ll share it with you, Boyd. My stipulations remain the same. Keep the inane conversations to a minimum, but if there’s an emergency, or something you think might become an emergency, use my number. I’ll do my best to be there for the two of you.”

“Because we’re Pack?” Boyd asked.

Peter nodded, knowing the two teenagers couldn’t see him. “Because we’re Pack.”

“Thanks, man,” Boyd said, sounding oddly affected by his statement.

“Yeah, thanks Uncle Peter,” Erica said, voice wavering. Clearly speaking through tears. “It means a lot.”

“It’s Pack, girlie,” he said, relaxing in spite of himself at the sound of her quiet laughter. “Of course it means a lot. If you’ve got nothing else, I have a sick teenager to monitor.”

“Stiles said something about lasagna?”

“He has been asking quite nicely for something homecooked,” Peter said.

Erica snorted. “And what are the chances we can ask nicely and get something homecooked too?”

Peter laughed. “Try not to ask too many favors at once,” he said.

She made an odd sound. “That wasn’t a no.”

“No,” Peter agreed. “Not quite a no.”

“But not right now?” Boyd asked, ever astute.

“Something like that,” Peter said. “I’ll be in touch if I find something of use.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Boyd said. “Good night.”

Erica snorted again. “Sort of.”

Peter hummed, looking down at Stiles. The younger man’s face was still buried in Peter’s armpit, but he’d exchanged the incoherent mumbling for apparently mouthing at the sleeve of Peter’s shirt. “Something like that, anyway,” he said, ending the call. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and shifting a bit in the bed. He rested his head on top of Stiles’, nuzzling a bit, and closed his eyes. He would either wake up when the teenager did, or when Stiles’ alarm to take his medication went off.

Either way, a nap sounded like just the thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slow progression toward a possibly coherent plotline, who would have guessed? (It would have been up sooner, but I got a little bit distracted and fell into a JohnLock rabbit hole there for a little while)
> 
> Unrelated,  
> I found out that a bunch of my works have been posted up on Goodreads without my knowledge // permission. **Please** don't do this. I really, _really_ don't want to have my stuff posted up on other websites, especially without my knowledge. I appreciate that folks are interested in reading it, but there's a reason I've only uploaded them here on AO3.  
> I absolutely appreciate that you all seem to like what I write; my only request is that you not distribute it to any other websites or platforms.


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